What's Proper Can Cost You What Matters
When I was a girl, I couldn't climb a fence without a little help.
You know the one. Too tall to climb on your own, standing between you and wherever the fun was happening on the other side. And there was always that moment where you looked at your friend, and without a single word exchanged, they cupped their hands together, braced their shoulder against the wood, and said, "Come on, I've got you."
You put your foot in their hands. They pushed. And up you went.
No hesitation. No negotiation. No "let me check if this is the proper way to get over a fence." Just a boost. One person lowering themselves so another could rise.
I've spent years teaching women that this is not something we outgrow. That the boost is available to us in business and in life, that we are allowed to ask for it, and that we are allowed to receive it.
But this season of my life reminded me of something I don't say often enough: Sometimes the boost comes even when you forget to ask. And sometimes the only thing standing between you and receiving it is your own idea of what's "proper."
The call I almost talked myself out of
My husband, Gino, recently returned to his homeland of Togo, in West Africa. He went to bury his mother. He spent twelve days there, honoring her, celebrating her life, sitting in the particular kind of grief that only comes when you lose the woman who first taught you how to love.
A few days after receiving the news, a dear friend of mine called. I will never forget her words, because she said them plainly, without a trace of hesitation: "I want Gino to feel loved and supported by us. How can we do this? What is the proper way to honor his customs and traditions and also make him feel as special as he is?"
I am embarrassed to say, but I shrugged it off.
I dismissed it, kindly but firmly. You see, in West African tradition, when you attend a funeral, you give money. It is an act of respect, of shared burden, of community. But here, in the culture I move through every day, handing someone an envelope of cash after a death can feel awkward. Improper. Something people might raise an eyebrow at.
So in a split second, I made her beautiful question about me. About logistics. About what would look right and what people might think. I told her that when Gino returned, we'd hold a mass and some kind of celebration of life, and that I'd get back to her later about what our "boost" should look like.
I took her open hands, ready to lift us over the fence, and I said, "Not yet. Let me first make sure we're doing this the right way."
She had other plans
Thank God she didn't listen to me.
My friend went quietly, without permission. She and another friend sat down and did the work. They researched the customs and traditions of West Africa so they could honor Gino in a way that was aligned and respectful, not assumed. They learned what mattered in his culture rather than defaulting to what was comfortable in ours.
And then they gathered the community. They collected from our prayer group. From my clients, family, and our closest friends. People who love Gino, quietly folding their support together into one gesture.
When they presented us with that gift, it brought us to tears. Full stop.
Not because of the amount (although that took our breath away as well!). Because of what it meant. He felt seen. He felt held. And we felt loved in a language my husband's heart recognized without translation. It aligned perfectly with his customs and traditions, the very thing I had been so worried about getting "right" that I nearly did nothing at all.
She got it right precisely because she refused to let "proper" become an excuse to stay small.
What I almost missed
I nearly robbed my own husband of one of the most meaningful gestures of his grief because I was worried about how it would look. I made it about propriety when it was always supposed to be about love. I stood at the fence, and instead of putting my foot in my friend's hands, I started giving a lecture on the correct technique for climbing.
How often do we do this?
Someone offers to help, and we say, "Oh no, I couldn't." Someone tries to show up for us, and we manage them, we shrink the gesture, we make it convenient and tidy and small. We turn a moment of connection into a logistics problem. We let "the right way" become the enemy of the loving way.
And it's not just when we're receiving. We do it when we're giving, too. We hesitate to show up for someone because we're not sure of the etiquette. We don't send the meal, make the call, or gather the group because we're afraid of doing it wrong. So we do nothing, and we call our inaction "respect."
But love was never asking for perfect protocol. Love was asking for our hands.
The invitation
So here is what I want to leave you with, whether you run a company, a household, a classroom, or simply a life you're trying to live with meaning.
Can we make it about what matters instead of what's proper?
When someone offers you a boost, take it. Stop auditing whether it's proper, whether the timing is right, whether you've earned it, or whether people might raise an eyebrow. Those questions keep us stuck at the fence. The "how" is not the point. The love behind it is.
And when you are the one with cupped hands, resist the urge to get the method perfect before you move. You don't need the flawless approach or the socially correct gesture. You need to know what actually matters to the person in front of you, and then act. That's what my friend understood. She didn't ask whether it was polite. She asked what would make him feel loved, and let that answer lead.
Because at the end of the day, the goal was never to do it properly. The goal was to make someone feel loved and supported. And when we let go of everything else and let that be the goal, that is exactly what happens.
To the friend who went behind my back, the amazing, generous and super special Dr. Betsy Guerra: thank you for climbing the fence when I was too busy studying it. You didn't just help us over the fence. You reminded me that when we focus on what really matters, everything else gets out of the way.